


At Least The Pillows Are Safe

by Black_Calliope



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff and Crack, LITERALLY, M/M, The pack destroys Derek's bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-07
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-28 13:03:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/674691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Black_Calliope/pseuds/Black_Calliope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We belong now,” Stiles often whispers to Derek, no matter if they are still lying on rumpled sheets, naked bodies sweat-slick and a sated look in their eyes, or if they are curled on the couch, watching a movie with the rest of the pack piled all over the carpet and the old armchair. “We belong,” he says, murmurs it again and again, lips brushing against the shell of Derek’s ears, words sinking into his heart and taking roots there, enveloping it in <i>hope</i> and <i>tomorrow</i> and <i>family</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At Least The Pillows Are Safe

**Author's Note:**

> So, a few months ago I saw [this lovely fanart](http://monkeyscandance.tumblr.com/post/27499339569/the-last-episode-of-teen-wolf-gave-me-a-lot-of) by monkeyscandance on my dash and thought 'oh, wow, pack feels overload', which ineluctably led to me writing a short fic. And then I forgot about it.
> 
> Yes, I wrote something and then forgot about posting it. Eh.

It’s Isaac that gives them the idea.

Mainly because Derek is tired of having people sneaking into his bed at night, piling over him as if he is one huge pillow and elbowing him in the worst places in the vain attempt to fit into two meters square. Because no matter how large the unfortunate piece of furniture might be, there is no safe way to make three teenagers and a twenty-four years old man fit together on the same bed.

Thing is that, at the start, Derek had been almost okay with it. Erica is tiny and she fit perfectly between him and Boyd, her blonde hair a sharp contrast against the other young werewolf’s skin, and Isaac had developed the ridiculous habit to sleep on top of them anyway, sprawled up as if he owned the place, as if he owned  _them_. 

But then Stiles had jumped right into the middle of the equation, touching Derek in the most inappropriate times, just brief, soft brushes of fingers against bare skin that had somehow become  _more_. Derek wouldn’t even know how to explain it. He still has the strong suspect that the kid has been purposely sneaking around him for months, waiting for the perfect chance to strike, but every time he tries to approach the topic with Stiles the kid's lips curl in a sibylline smile that has Derek frowning because, hello, _Derek is supposed to be the Alpha here_ , the one that everything knows but shares nothing, because ‘secretive’ is often synonym of ‘powerful’ in packs. Or at least that's what he's been taught.

But Stiles- Oh, Stiles is the opposite definition of secretive, he talks and talks and talks, sharing pieces of himself with anyone willing to pay attention. And sometimes Derek catches himself watching the kid, observing each one of his moves as he happily bounces from a room to another, walking around Derek's old house as if he's always lived there.

The first time Derek found him and Erica in the kitchen, cooking together, he almost couldn’t believe his own eyes. “You have to stir it like this, slowly and continuously,” Stiles had said, bent over a pot of what smelled like a mix of hot milk, sugar, eggs and- Pastry cream. Erica had been standing beside him, cheeks red and eyes shining with interest, and for the first time in months Derek had seen her for what she really was, a young girl that was just starting a new phase of her life.

There had been no trace of sickness on her face, no more dark shadows around her eyes, and when Derek finally had stepped inside the room her smile had immediately lit up, greeting him with a bright, happy line of white teeth.

“Derek!” she’d called, not moving from Stiles’ side but automatically turning so she would be facing Derek. “We are baking.” A small cloud of flour had fell from her hair as she’d turned her head, glancing back at the pot full of sweet, mouth-watering cream. “Well, Stiles is doing most of the work but still- It’s a cake,” she’d concluded, pure awe painted all over her words.

“Technically, at the time being, it’s just pastry cream and sponge cake,” Stiles had immediately corrected her, too concentrated on the pot over the stove to pay full attention to the situation. “We still have to make the icing, and I’ll need you to rinse the strawberries if we want to-” Derek had tuned him out at that point, letting the quiet back and forth of phrases between him and Erica become a white noise purring at the back of his head as he’d focused his senses on their heartbeats, his blood slowly starting to rush in time with theirs.

 _Pack doesn’t mean just a physical assemble, Derek, you have to feel them inside you._ That’s how the words that Derek’s father had pronounced many years before had become a solid truth in Derek’s head, the certainty that he was – _is_ – finally following the right path settling in his chest along with the sweet scent of strawberries and the lively sound of laughs. And then a dollop of cream had collided with his nose and, before Derek had been able to do anything more useful than _gape_ , Stiles tongue had been there, hot and wet and obscenely _loud_ , as he’d licked away most of it. “Sour cream,” he’d giggled, waving a wooden spoon in the air.

Derek had blinked.

“Just a friendly reminder, but jizz isn’t between the ingredients,” Erica had grinned from behind Stiles, right before tapping the kid’s shoulder with something resembling a spatula.

Derek had kept watching as Stiles had suddenly stilled, red creeping from the collar of his shirt like the most delicious of the ink. “Of course it isn’t,” He’d cheered, turning away from Derek with a smooth move. “And that’s because my grandmother wasn’t a _prostitute_.”

At that, the two of them had exchanged a complicit, feral grin that had made Derek’s heart swell with pride and warmth. He’d rested his elbows on the smooth surface of the table, basking in the contentment of finally  having familiar voices resonating around him – again –, enjoying the way their smells melted together.

Because that’s what pack is about, smells and electricity, emotions that each one of them can feel under their skin, even when they are far away one from the other, when the night is too dark and void of any shadow and not even their enhanced senses can help them.

Derek knows this, has known it since before the first time he met Stiles and Scott. And he is re learning it day after day, with every small brush of Stiles’ fingers against his skin and every kiss happily smacked on his lips.

“We belong now,” Stiles often whispers to him, no matter if they are still lying on rumpled sheets, naked bodies sweat-slick and a sated look in their eyes, or if they are curled on the couch, watching a movie with the rest of the pack piled all over the carpet and the old armchair. “We belong,” he says, murmurs it again and again, lips brushing against the shell of Derek’s ears, words sinking into his heart and taking roots there, enveloping it in _hope_ and _tomorrow_ and _family_.

And that’s how, slowly and not very subtly, Derek’s bed has become more and more crowded.

To be honest, everything started with Scott falling asleep with his head over Stiles’ lap during a study night – or the poor excuse of it, since they’d spent it mostly talking about movies and “I refuse to let Allison lure you into watching Twilight, Scott! You must be saved from this madness!” Right. -, and then Jackson suddenly appeared there too, so strongly glued to Danny and Lydia’s ass that Derek didn’t have any other chance but to sigh and curl at the foot of _his own bed_ , arms around Stiles’ hips and a vengeful frown directed to the impudent herd of teenagers that had taken possession of his mattress.

Too many. It isn’t too a hard concept to understand, just simple Physics and a touch of common sense that should’ve poked at the _empty insides of_ _these idiots head_ s way before Derek’s bed would have creaked sinisterly right before crumbling down, the wood crying in relief because- _Heavy_.

After that, it’s Isaac that gives them the idea.

Of course, his suggestion has nothing to do with the fact that Derek would have probably wolfed out right there and then and slaughtered each one of them in many painful, creative ways if Stiles hadn’t been around, ready to slap his partner on the nape, because- “Blood. Carpet. I’m not going to touch this topic. Not _again_.”

Surely you can trust Derek to fear Stiles’ bitching more than anything else in the world. And that’s why Isaac’s idea to, well, transform the old basement’s floor into a huge, comfy bed, complete with pillows and duvets and every other sort of comforts, is welcomed with a lot of enthusiasm from everyone and a dark nod from Derek. Well, it takes Stiles elbowing him to get Derek to capitulate, but still. Small victories, that’s what they say.

So, in short, that’s how Derek’s ancient, once sumptuous house gets turned into a nursery for inappropriately loud and cuddly teenagers. Or how pack becomes, somehow, synonym of family.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
